Then there was a check--the fox had hidden in one of the barnyards, and the huntsmen, hounds, and all the small boys searched for him, while everybody else stood round or walked about in the square in front of the Bull Head Inn. Soon there was a halloo--the fox had been found hiding in a hay mow. He was driven out, “broken up” and the carcass given to the dogs, who yelped and barked and fought for the pieces. The brush was given to me. Now you can’t say I haven’t written you a long letter, dear old A. D.,--but it was such a wonderful day that I just had to tell you all about it. * * * * * POLLY TO A. D. _Leicestershire, October._ Now for a confession! There are two young men here at the house party. One is big and homely and loose-jointed but a good sort, while the other is dark and very handsome and goes to Oxford. He gave me his picture and asked if he couldn’t have mine for his watch. I told him I was surprised that he didn’t have a girl’s photograph for his already. Before I knew it, he had opened my watch and seen you. I didn’t know exactly what to do, so I said you were my older brother. He swallowed it all down seriously, and in fact remarked that he thought I looked very much like you. I feel immensely flattered and only wish it were true. But I am not going to write you any more sweet letters. It isn’t because I have changed one bit in my feelings toward you, but because variety is the spice of life, and if you have too many nice things written to you, you won’t appreciate them, and I have been good for a long time now. Besides, you say you are not coming to Paris and I am very cross. Aunt sends her best wishes and says, “Men are April when they woo, and December when they wed.” I’m afraid that is true to life--don’t you think so? * * * * * A. D. TO POLLY _Rome, October._ Oh, little Polly the Pagan, you say that variety is the spice of life and accordingly you won’t write any more sweet letters for a time, so I must hurry to tell you that spice is one of the things forbidden in the diet of my cure, and so I know you won’t force me to take any. You must, you _must_ write me real love letters, or something fatal may happen to me. Do you wish me to stop writing pretty things to you, now that you have stopped writing them to me? Because, if that is the case, I--I can’t do it! So you see, I plan to keep on pestering you day after day, and you may say, oh, well, as long as it makes him happy, let him continue. The Frenchwoman’s philosophy is that woman’s greatest happiness is in making man happy. She may not really care for him, but she will pretend to, if it makes his heart glad. That is pretty good philosophy. Since you are soon to be in fair France, you should consider the French point of view!